She snapped her fingers under his nose, with one of those little audacious movements of hers which were infinitely fascinating—to strangers. Jack Chicot shuddered visibly. Yes, it was horribly true. Her death would be his release from bondage. Her death? Would he know himself, believe in his own identity, if she were gone, and he was free to walk the world again, his own master, with hopes and ambitions of his own, bearing his own name, not ashamed to look mankind in the face, no longer known as the husband of La Chicot?
He persuaded her earnestly to have nothing to do with the ironwork that had been made to bear her to the theatrical skies. Why should she run such a risk? Any ballet-girl would do as well, he argued.
‘Yes, and the ballet-girl would show off her good looks, and get all the applause. I am not such a fool as to give her the chance. Don’t waste your breath in talking about it, Jack. I mean to do it.’
‘Of course,’ he said bitterly. ‘When did you ever renounce a caprice to please me?’
‘Perhaps never. I am a creature of caprices. It was a caprice that made me marry you, a caprice that made you marry me, and now we are both honestly tired. That’s a pity, isn’t it?’
‘I try to do my duty to you, my dear,’ he answered gravely, with a sigh.
La Chicot had her own way, naturally, being one of those women who, once having taken their bent, are no more to be diverted than a mountain torrent which the rains have swollen. The new ballet was a success; the final tableau was a triumph for La Chicot. She looked lovely, in an attitude more perfect than anything that was ever done in marble—her round white arms lifted above her head, flinging back the loose branches of coral, her black hair covering her like a mantle. That long rich hair was one of her chief beauties—something to be remembered where all was beautiful.
The machinery worked splendidly. Jack was at the wings the first night, anxious and watchful. A fragment of conversation which he heard just behind him while the coral bower was rising, did not tend to reassure him.
‘It’s all very well to-night,’ said one of the scene-shifters to his mate, ‘they’re both sober; but when she’s drunk, and he’s drunk, God help her.’
Jack went to Mr. Smolendo directly the curtain was down.